The Au Fait Robbery
by FanOfRandomThings
Summary: A donation of time for some foster kids. A visit to a children's fun house. John helping Lestrade's niece's foundation. It all seems rather innocent, until a masked man robs the foundation's safe, John disappears, and Sherlock is forced into a tight situation: steal an important government file from his own brother, or leave John at the hands of a kidnapper who means business.
1. Introduction

**AU:** _Alright, for those of you who read my Hobbit fan fiction, have no fear I have absolutely no plan of leaving that behind. _

_I like constructive criticism as it will help me figure out where I'm going with this story, but no flames please! This is my first ever attempt at writing Sherlock; we'll see how this goes._

_(Very Important!) I have only seen the first two seasons of Sherlock because of technical issues with my TV, so let's say Sherlock 'died' and 'came back' and things happened, but since I know very little about Mary, she won't be in this. Sorry Mary fans :(_

* * *

_Introduction_

"Commendable effort, that, however I think you'll be disappointed to know that your plan hasn't particularly gotten you the kind of attention you hoped to acquire."

"Oh, I haven't even begun my plan yet. All you've witnessed is the prequel, the initiatory, the d'abord. No, my plan is starting right now. Bring him out!"

He recognized the suppressed grunt of pain before he saw the face of the person who was thrown to the floor.

"My plan is staring now, Sherlock. Bring me the file in less than 48 hours, and he might actually get out of this situation."

* * *

The Au Fait Robbery 

* * *

_Some time prior..._

"Just another day in the flat. Just another day the bloody flat. Just another bloody day at the bloody-"

"If you say that one more time, the flat's not going to be the only thing around here that's bloody."

"I can't stand this sitting around, this waiting! I need a case, that's what I need, a case. Are there any on the-"

"No, Sherlock, as I've said before, there are none on the blog. I think you've got to face facts that, at this time in the autumn, everyone's either busy with work or off with family."

"Off with family, that's good. Family often causes cases!"

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You told Lestrade that you would make a short appearance at that fun house his niece set up for that charity foundation. You're supposed to be there in a half hour."

"I never told him any such thing."

"Yes you did. When he asked, you said, 'mm hm'."

"Mm hm is a noncommittal sound."

"No, in case you hadn't heard, mm hm is a sound of agreement."

"I never said I agreed."

"It would get you out of the flat."

"I never said I wanted out of the flat."

"Just a minute ago you-"

"Wanted a case, not a charity donation of my time."

"Of which you have plenty, currently."

"You're welcome to go."

"Fine, I'll just tell all the excited children that the 'great Sherlock Holmes' couldn't be there with them due to an extreme case of a superiority complex!"

"Yes, you do that... Why aren't you leaving, you only have a half hour to get there."

The door shut, and John huffed as he set off, the last of the sunrise still painting the sky a dull pink.

* * *

_**AU: **Thoughts, comments? Tell me what ya think!_


	2. Chapter 1

**AU: **_Well, normally I would never get two chapters posted so close to each other (ever, seriously) but I've been on break with quite a few ideas on my mind, so I've been writing. Anyway, here goes. _

* * *

The wind was chilly and the leaves gleamed slightly orange in the overcast autumn weather. His coat was pulled tightly around himself as marched away from the cabbie and toward the group of foster kids who were awaiting the appearance of the detective duo who was noticeably down by one.

"Mr. Watson?" The young brunette haired woman offered her hand, and John nodded.

"John, yes. Would you be Miss Tyler, Lestrade's niece?"

"Please, call me Jane. It's nice to meet you, I've read your blog and all the kids love when they're read mystery stories at the daycare. You and your friend must lead very exciting lives. Where is Mr Holmes, by the way?"

"Well, uh, as you said yourself, we lead fairly exciting lives and he can't always be where he was scheduled to be."

"Oh. Oh dear, so he's not coming? Well, we'll tell the kids that and I suppose you must be off as well?"

"No, no I can stay. I'll even go in the fun house with them, if you like."

"That was the plan."

"Yes, so it was. Plans are good... So, let's go speak to the kids!"

John followed Jane over to where another small group of adults were watching the group of about 15 children.

"Well," Jane got the kids' attention, "John Watson has arrived to take you in the fun house!"

A lone little boy raised his hand, "MrJohn Watson, sir, where's Sherlock Holmes?"

"He, uh, he's currently unable to come, however I'm here to lead your through the fun house!"

There was a murmur of disappointment amongst the kids, and John cleared his throat.

"So, shall we go in?" He looked around at the kids and adults, who all nodded. Jane pulled open the fun house door, and John stepped inside, waiting as the line of children followed him in.

The fun house was decorated with lights, bright colors, distorted mirrors, and tall, metallic slides. There were also passages that lead off in separate directions, mirrors and interesting, colorful images lining the walls. A short set of stairs led up in one direction, and John took them, many children still following him, not yet laughing at their images in mirrors. However, when John reached the top, the rest of the children noticed the top of a slide, and they ran off, sliding down it in with happy laughs.

"Well, they seem to have cleared their minds of Mr. Holmes for the moment," Jane came up beside John, smiling at the happy kids.

"Yes, I'm glad I could come, though. This is quite a set up!"

"Yes, a kind old woman left this manor to the foster daycare, and we turned it into this for most of the year. We may replace it with other attractions occasionally, though, for the kids. We thought it might be good to open in the autumn."

"Mind if I look around?"

"Of course not! I warn you, most of this place has been renovated for the fun house, but if you go too far on this level, up a level, or down in the basement, it's untouched; still an old manor. You're welcome to go back there, I suppose, but be careful of old floorboards and such; we've hardly been back there at all! Just a quick run over when we first received it and now we haven't looked at it for months. It should all be unlocked, except a few rooms. We're careful about not letting kids wander too far."

"Sounds good, I'll be careful," John reassured Jane, "See you in a few!"

"Don't get lost!"

"I thought this is a fun house, isn't that the point?"

Jane grinned, and then she went back to help the kids.

John made his way down the hallway, laughing at a tall skinny reflection of himself; he almost looked like Sherlock! Continuing, he came to a door. It was painted bright blue and opened before he even touched it. Nodding, he entered and continued down what seemed to be a slightly darker hallway. Surprisingly darker, actually, and John wondered why they hadn't gotten better lighting.

Part way down the hall, he gasped as the floor felt shaky. It suddenly collapsed beneath him, and he fell onto what felt like a soft feather mattress. He laughed softly once more, seeing that there was a ladder that led out of the small, cramped area, and he picked himself up and moved toward it. Before he finished climbing the short ladder, however, the trap door shut tightly.

"Hey!" He declared, pressing on the door and fully expecting it to open, but it didn't. "Hey!" He shouted, again trying to open the door, but it remained tightly shut.

Now banging on the door, John shouted loudly as he could, but still it remained shut. Slightly panicking now, John looked around himself. It was absolute cave darkness; he had no way of knowing anything about his confinement. When he got out of here, he'd have to warn Jane about this.

Banging again and finding it to be of no use, John climbed down, blindly feeling about in the darkness to see if he could find any sort of way out. To his shock, he felt a door knob. Turning it excitedly, he raised a foot to step out of that little dark space, but instead it caused the floor to collapse beneath him once again, and he felt himself sliding down a metal, swirled slide into blackness.

Behind him, an alarm sounded, though the door snapped back up, and the sound became only a dull moan in the back of his mind. Then, he hit the ground with a smack, and stars danced in front of his eyes, before they gently slipped shut.

* * *

The bright, familiar lights of police cars were already flashing in front of the fun house when Lestrade arrived. Apparently his hold up in the office had given some others time to show up first, and he hurried toward his niece who was standing near the door, wringing her hands.

"Jane, what's happened? Did the robber threaten any of the kids? Are you alright?"

"Oh, Uncle, they said you'd come! None of the kids even saw him, but I got a good look! He was all in black with a black ski mask, the works! As I said, we was robbing the old safe. Took several bags of money, saw me, ran, and jumped out the window and disappeared! He had a gun, I saw it!"

"Did he threaten you?"

"No, he just saw me and took off."

"So, he was only after the money? How'd he get in?"

"I don't know how he got in, or how he opened the safe! Only three of us know the combo and I would never have said and they're both trust worthy! All I can do is be thankful that money was all he was after. Oh it was awful, who would steal from the foundation? All we do is help kids and we hardly even have any money. He took almost everything!"

"Calm down, you're alright. Where are kids now?"

"My partner Kate took some back to the daycare, and parents took the rest home. Luke is still here, talking to police with questions."

"Alright, where are Sherlock and Dr Watson?"

Jane's face paled, "That's right, that John Watson was here! Sherlock never came, but John did. He went exploring and never came back. You don't suppose?"

"No, he wouldn't have had anything to do with it, I've known him a long time. You say he went exploring and never came back?"

"Yes, he should have heard the alarm when the safe was unlocked without it being cleared in the front of the burglary system, the whole place is wired. To unlock the safe, you have to type in another code at the front, you see. Wouldn't have John come out when he heard the alarm?"

"Yes, I would have thought so. I've got to go in and talk to people. You'll be alright?"

"Yes, I think I'll come in as well."

"Okay, and you say Sherlock didn't show up?"

"No, John said he was busy."

"Typical. Is anyone looking for John?"

"No, in all the commotion I'd quite forgotten him."

"Alright, I'll put someone on that, I might call Sherlock to say he's missing as well."

"But if Sherlock is busy..."

"He might come anyway, depending on how I word the text."

Lestrade entered and spoke with several officers about the brake in, then warned an officer about potential dangers in the old house before sending him off to look for John.

"Keep in contact," Lestrade warned, "If you can't find anything, come back and tell me. I'm also going to try his cell."

Several rings later, Lestrade found that John wasn't picking up, and the officer was sent on his way.

Pulling out his phone once again, Lestrade sent a text to Sherlock.

_Robbery at the children's fun house. John missing and not answering cell._

_Lestrade_

Lestrade waited a bit, then his phone buzzed.

_You're right, he's not. Did he know what happened?_

_SH_

_Yes, the alarm sounded, but he didn't appear. Robber had a gun._

_Lestrade_

_Still not answering. Expect me in 10_

_SH_

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. It was surprisingly easy reeling in Sherlock sometimes, whereas most times it was impossibly difficult. Perhaps John tended to answer his calls, and that was off putting? Either way, at least now the crime was more likely to be solved. 'Er, more quickly solved,' Lestrade corrected himself.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock swept into the scene, black coat flaring behind him.

"Sherlock, you came," Lestrade's voice was tinted with slight surprise.

"Of course I came," Sherlock's frown came across with a distasteful sneer, "Obviously John wasn't around to send. No one has seen him?"

"No, but I have people looking. Now, can we go look at the place of the robbery?"

"You have people looking?" Sherlock sighed, "I'll look at the safe, but then I'll take over the looking myself; then he might actually be found."

Sherlock suddenly started as he phone buzzed, but he quickly smoothed what Lestrade had almost though was a deep unease, and he checked his phone.

"Who is it?"

Sherlock frowned deeply, but he shook his head. "Keep people looking for him! It's, it's nothing."

Had Sherlock just faltered? Lestrade was sure it was something for, however small it was, Sherlock had a frown that was tinted with something close to worry.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked slowly.

"Of course I'm alright," Sherlock shot back, "Now, where's the safe?"

Lestrade watched as Sherlock's hand inched toward the pocket that held his phone, and Lestrade frowned; was something on the phone worrying the consulting detective? Knowing Sherlock would never share such information with the likes of him, however, Lestrade simply lead the way up the stairs.

"My niece said a man all in black with a ski mask came in, had a gun but didn't threaten anyone, stole some money, and ran, then jumped from the window. To me it honestly sounds like a fairly stereotypical robbery, except John is missing. I have no concrete reason to think him in any trouble, except he should had come out at the sound of the alarm."

"You're right about one thing," Sherlock eyed the safe door, "It was a stereotypical robbery, and that's why it's not."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade asked.

"If the man wanted money, he could have robbed a bank or a store. As I'm sure your niece would have pointed out, this kind of foundation has very little money to spare, so if it was money he was after, there were more profitable places to rob. Again, if he was desperate for money alone, he wouldn't have let your niece see him and then simply run without threatening her not to follow or something of the sort. He was carrying a gun for a reason, and if it wasn't to threaten a person who saw him then it was for show, for scare factor."

"So it's a he..."

"That boot print in the mud in the alley below the window if obviously a man's; I can see it from here. Even if a woman had been wearing man's shoes to disguise herself, she wouldn't have been able to run in them, without fear of tripping, as your niece said he did."

"How do you think he got in the safe?"

"Either he knew the code, which could be likely considering many people succumb to the lose lips fault, or he listened for clicks. This, being an old safe, would have provided the clicks necessary for a burglary, leading this robbery to be increasingly traditional."

"So, you think he's a traditional person, maybe older?"

"No, very few older men could jump from that window and land safely. He is traditional or a least working hard to appear traditional, it has nothing whatsoever to do with age. Now you have a little background information to go on; I have things to attend to. Where was John last seen?"

"John? Jane said he was looking around the back of the manor."

"If you don't hear from me in the next day, contact my brother at this number."

"You actually want me to contact your brother?"

"Only if I don't contact you first," Sherlock then swept away, his black coat again billowing behind him, and Lestrade closed his hand around the scratch paper a phone number had been scribbled on in a messy, hurried script. Sherlock wanted him to contact his brother? Was that actually what he'd said? Something was wrong, and perhaps Lestrade should have asked what it was. Of course, Sherlock would never have told him what was wrong, but perhaps it was Lestrade's place to find out what it was on his own. After all, despite everything that Sherlock was and did, Lestrade was the law.

Meanwhile, as Sherlock bustled away, he once again retracted his phone from his pocket, a list of three messages appearing on his screen.

_Hello, I'm back._

_Oh dear, you did show up quickly! He's waiting..._

_Have **fun!**  
-IOU_

* * *

**AU: **_Hello, well please tell me what you think. I love comments, so please give me some feedback!_


	3. Chapter 2

**AU: **_Here's another update, hope you enjoy. Congrats to anyone who can pick out the tidbit I added as a tribute to the Sherlock Holmes books!_

* * *

The manor was old; of course a house this size plopped anywhere near London, even if on the extreme outskirts, had to be ancient. This particular manor went back to the 1600s, according to what Sherlock could tell about the architecture and wood used. Although the front of the manor had been vastly turned into a child's wonderland, the rest of the manor (calling it a house was a true insult to its grandeur) was unchanged.

Elegant pictures lined the walls dating from many different time periods, including one particularly grand painting of a man named Reginald Musgrave who the manor apparently belonged to at one point. Sherlock paused a moment, studying several of the paintings including one of an elderly woman: probably the lady who donated the manor to the daycare. It seemed that she hadn't any children, as that was the last painting that decorated the gallery.

Quickly moving on, Sherlock scrutinized each hall and room he entered, his shoes tapping a quick pattern on the tiled floor. He'd long ago gone beyond where the children were allowed to go and, quite honestly, it looked as though few people had been in this part of the manor for several months.

A thick layer of dust covered the entirety of the furniture, and if it weren't for the cleanliness of much of the floor, he would have thought that no one had been in this part of the manor in ages. As it was, there should have been at least some dust that settled on the floor, and yet much of it looked newly mopped. Strangely, the edges of the rooms and halls had accumulated dust, whereas the center where he was walking was shiny with cleanliness.

Puzzling over this peculiarity, he came to a branch in the hall he was traveling. Eyes sweeping over the floor, he saw that the right had a slightly dusty floor with a few cobwebs clinging to the walls, while the left side was similarly clean to the path he'd been traveling. Raising an eye brow, he turned down the left hall, and came to an abrupt stop at a closed door at the end.

This door was a new event. Most of these halls didn't simply end like this. Most turned off to the right or left, presumably creating a loop around the manor. This hall stopped dead: there was a reason why he'd been led here.

Grasping the ornate, golden door knob, Sherlock tried the door and found that it opened. Taking a breath, he pushed the door open and carefully stepped forward.

The room was dark, and it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once he could see reasonably well, he found that the room had been stripped of all furniture save a lamp that stood in one corner. Glancing around and seeing nothing else of any interest, he walked toward the lamp.

To his minimal surprise, it turned on when he turned the tiny, silver knob near the top. The lamp sent an eerily dim, green light dancing about the room, and Sherlock searched for any reason why he'd be here. As he searched, a quiet creaking met his ears. Turning toward the door, he found that it was inching its way closed, clearly on its own.

Eyes widening, he hurried toward it posthaste, yet before he reached it, it slammed shut. Yanking on the knob, Sherlock found that it was locked. Taking a deep breath, his eyes scrutinized the door. It's was then that he noticed a tiny device near the bottom on the door that also connected to the wall.

"A timed device," Sherlock said out loud, "It closed the door, and clearly the lock was timed as well."

He waited, almost as if he expected some unseen force to answer him, but none did. He stood in silence for a moment, waiting to see if anything would happen, and that's when the light abruptly switched off, leaving him in cave blackness.

Admittedly, at this point his pulse had quickened slightly. He liked having power over his own life and being locked in a pitch black room with no knowledge of why he was there, or why he'd been getting suspicious texts about a missing friend, was something that he was finding could give one a most acute sense of powerlessness. Fumbling for his mobile, he clicked it on and let the dim light from the screen illuminate the room. It suddenly beeped, and he checked frantically for a text. No, he was just running low on battery power. Of all possible times, why now?

His eyes were searching quite frantically at this point for the reason why he'd been led to this room, other than a somewhat disturbing notion that it could simply be a trap. Finally, his eyes landed on a crack in the teak wall paneling. A small crack, granted, but it was different than the rest of the walls. Stepping over to it, Sherlock's hands flew over the panels, trying to discern if there was some sort of hidden door there. The manor was old and an old manor might house such storybook-like things.

His hands finally hit a panel that slid inwards when he pressed it, and from that panel, a whole portion of the wall swung back.

Retracting his mobile from his pocket again, Sherlock saw that a flight of metal, circular stairs curled into the blackness of what could be a basement. Carefully taking one step, and then another, he began the descent, until his phone made another beep. This time, it was a text message.

_Clever. I do hope you're not afraid of the dark._  
_Come up think of it, you'd better hope he isn't afraid of the dark. Of course, being alone in the dark isn't quite the same as being with someone unknown in the dark._

Frowning at the text, Sherlock wondered who it was that was alone and who was with someone unknown, although the obvious answer was that he was alone. Subconsciously listening for any sounds of life, Sherlock nodded.

It sounded like he was alone.

Pocketing his phone in order to save any residual battery power, he felt around for each step until he reached the bottom. Again taking out his phone, he clicked it on to see that he'd arrived at an underground passage that turned a corner and disappeared.

Feeling his way down the passage, he turned the corner and once again clicked his phone on. It was alarmingly close to dead.

The phone shed a dim light, but from the light he could see one thing quite clearly. A wooden chair sat in the middle of the room, facing the wall, and tied to the chair was quite obviously John Watson.

Breathing a sigh of both relief and unease (why was John here, alone, and unguarded?) Sherlock hurried over.

"John," he said, "Are you hurt? Have you see who's been doing this? What's happened to you?"

Sherlock tugged at the ropes, expecting an answer, but there was none. Suspicion suddenly boiled in the pit of his stomach, and Sherlock quietly asked, "John?"

Again receiving no answer, Sherlock went around to look at the front of John to see if he was deeply unconscious, and then his jaw drop and he was, admittedly, quite taken of guard.

_It_ was not John, in fact _it_ was not alive.

A grinning mannequin wearing a shirt quite similar to those that John usually wore, with hair that looked quite like his, was staring back at Sherlock with lifeless, glass eyes. Sherlock backpedaled into the wall, dropping his phone and leaving himself in darkness. Then, an unrecognizable, electronic voice began to fill the room.

"So, you are fairly determined to find your little blogger. Presumably, you were expecting to find him somewhere down here, or at least find a clue. Well, I'll give you the last part, more or less.

"Clues can appear in the most unexpected places, so don't skirt the problem, get straight to the... the heart of the matter.

"And now, I'll leave you to it. Find me, and we'll negotiate scenarios for returning your missing blogger. I'll be seeing you, I'm sure."

The room was suddenly flooded with light, and Sherlock slammed his eyes shut and winced as white dots spun behind his closed eyelids. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, and the room danced into focus.

The mannequin still sat tied into the chair, and in full light Sherlock realized how very fake it actually looked. How he could have mistaken it for John, Sherlock had little idea. He stood, brushing himself off, and he inspected the hanging lamps that were lighting the room. They appeared to be very new, interesting.

Heading toward the door, Sherlock exited, smoothing any nerves that had even begun to grow jumpy. Taking a glance backwards, he looked at the room one more time, and then frowned as a voice obviously intended to be spooky floated across the room with a goodbye.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock made his way back up the stairs and tried the knob on the door. It was now unlocked.

He walked out into the hall, rolling the new information over in his mind. So, John had been abducted, and the kidnapper wanted something from him. The IOU labeling the text Sherlock had received pointed to Moriarty, but that could be a clever trick to get him on edge when really it was someone else completely.

And the 'clue' he'd been given was strange even to him. _The heart of the matter_, that was where the voice had stopped for a moment before speaking with great emphasis. The heart of the matter...

Before he'd even realized it, he'd arrived back at the sight of the robbery where things were being wrapped up, though Lestrade was still standing around, appearing to not be doing anything in particular.

The robbery: that had to be another part of the mystery. They didn't rob the safe just because they'd felt like it or needed money; there had to be an ulterior motive, though Sherlock hadn't quite put his finger on what it was. Was it a distraction while John was rushed out of the building? Was it to distract him from finding John?

As he was puzzling these various scenarios over in his mind, he noticed Lestrade making his way toward him, a questioning look on his face.

"Didn't find him?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Obviously, otherwise he'd be here," Sherlock replied. Lestrade paused before speaking.

"Is there something else going on that I don't know about?"

Sherlock gave him an almost blank look.

"I mean, criminally-wise. Is there more to this crime that you're not disclosing. You know you can't hold back evidence from the police. You haven't in the past, so don't do it now!" Seeing Sherlock's lack in interest, Lestrade raised his voice. "I don't care how you think you want to solve whatever crimes you get yourself involved in, it's the polices' business, not yours!"

"I haven't found John, and I can quite honestly say that I don't know yet where he is. As far as whatever it is you're concerned about, I told you what there is to know about the robbery. Surely, for once, you can do the finding of the criminal yourself as I have more important things to do."

"Well do tell me when you've found him, alright. I'm sure he'll show up soon... You don't think anything has actually happened to him?"

"He'll turn up," Sherlock replied. He knew better than to get the police involved in something like this.

"Alright, well we found little more about the robbery than that he dropped his pocket knife on the way out. We may be able to identify him through that, though it seems he was wearing gloves, so we won't find him through finger prints. However, the knife could be key."

"Hmm, messy mistake," Sherlock murmured, not particularly paying attention. Once Lestrade stopped talking, Sherlock nodded to him before hurrying away. He would return to 221B and see if he could put things together there. The heart of the matter... Another hint toward Moriarty, or an actual clue? Or perhaps, just another phrase to get him jumping at shadows? If it was the last, they'd failed miserably, except that he was debating on Moriarty's involvement.

He'd find the kidnapper soon, and they'd be sorry they ever tried tangling with Sherlock Holmes. And if it was Moriarty, well he'd be out of hiding and Sherlock would be able to deal with him as snakes need dealing with.

Fingering his mobile in his pocket, Sherlock caught a cab and arrived back at his flat. Right away, he plugged his phone into charge, and it buzzed with the arrival of a new text message.

_So, the great Sherlock Holmes missed a clue? I'm disappointed, you're usually much **brighter**. _

_Perhaps you won't be seeing John as quickly as I'd expected. He sends his love, however. _

_It would do him well if you sent yours._

_He'll need it. _

* * *

**_So, what do you think? Please, tell me in your comment ;)_**


	4. Chapter 3

A hesitant breeze brushed a leafless tree against the dirty, opaque window pane, but it wasn't enough to distract him from the crumpled paper in his hands.

_'Safe: 8, 22, 17. 10:00. DOTP'_

Helpful information, but obviously proving much less useful than promised.

Oh how he did despise when he was misinformed about the amount of usefulness something would provide. However, they'd gone this far, and he'd been told quite clearly whose head mistakes would be on. He would make this work, and perhaps the only way to follow through was to take it a step farther.

Lifting his phone to his ear, he hummed to himself until his call was answered.

"Yes, hello, he didn't take it. You've got to step it up a notch."

_"I thought you said this wasn't the most important part-"_

"It's all important. Now you'd better make it worth his while, or you won't be worth our while. Understand?"

_"Yes sir."_

"You should have a good idea of what we want. I'll know when you've made a move."

The call clicked to a close, and he laid his mobile on the desk in front of himself with a sigh.

'You know,' he said to himself, 'Perhaps I'm in the wrong line of work. This isn't exactly what I'd planned to do with the rest of my life.'

However, a sinister voice snaked into his head: _You won't be worth my while._ He knew what that meant, most everyone in this line of business did. He was just as susceptible as anyone else. There was always someone above you, although he supposed he did have some status, being 'friends' with who he was.

It was likely that friendship meant little; however, he liked to think that particular friendships, or partnerships, were the most unbreakable bonds found by man. That's why he was in this dingy building, which reminded him too closely of his past. Besides, he was one of the few who knew how to watch his own back, a skill that too many lacked and succumbed to.

And besides all that, he had his own vendettas which never left his mind.

His mobile suddenly clinked with the sound of a new text, and he surveyed it causally.

_'He's waking now.'_

After a slight hesitation, he nodded, tapping up his reply: _'I'll be down, but keep it dark. It's still too early, have caution.'_

* * *

"Nothing, there's nothing!"

"Nothing of what Sherlock? Where's John? Didn't he come back with you?"

Sherlock spun in his chair like a man possessed and surveyed Mrs Hudson for but a moment, before he shook his head and turned back to his computer.

"Oh, well I hope he's back soon. I baked his favorite, snooker-doodles! I don't suppose you want one."

"No, Mrs Hudson, I don't," Sherlock said in a tone that demanded no argument, and so the landlady placed the tray on the coffee table, took a few cookies for herself, and then retreated hastily from the room. Once she was gone, Sherlock let out an uncharacteristically loud sigh.

Standing from his rigid position on the couch, he began to pace, searching for what the heart of the problem was. John's disappearance was the heart of a problem, but the heart of the right one?

Checking his phone revealed nothing new, save the text he'd received after coming in and plugging in his dying mobile: _Are you smarter than a DI?_

What was that supposed to mean? Was that supposed to tell him to go talk to Lestrade? Had Lestrade found something?

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He snatched it from the desk, expecting to see something from the kidnapper, but it kept on buzzing. Lestrade was calling him.

"Hello?" Sherlock murmured.

"Sherlock, you should come down here; there's been a murder!"

"Down where?"

"The alley behind the kids' fun house. The victim has been recognized as one of the men who helped reconstruct the manor. He helped renovate it. Will you come?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Alright," he agreed.

* * *

John moaned as he shook his head weakly, panicking when all he could see was cave darkness. He blinked, searching to see if there was a blindfold, but when he found that there wasn't, he gasped and searched for the smallest sign of light.

This caused his head to pound, and he strained against the bounds that tied him to his chair. This was rather painful for his wrists, and so he resorted to twisting in the ropes in hopes of loosening them.

Suddenly a crack of light came into the room, shining on the floor, and he figured there must be a door behind him. He sat still, waiting for footsteps, but all was silent and the light disappeared.

Growing increasingly nervous, he sat perfectly still, listening. It wasn't until a moment later that a voice spoke directly into his ear and John leaped, tugging at the bonds around his wrists and ankles.

"So, you're the one they call Holmes's side kick, his 'friend', or as my own friend used to say, his pet."

John's chest heaved with anxiety, and he turned his head in the direction of the voice.

"Who, who's there?" he cursed his shaking voice, "Why am I here? What do you want?"

"For now, I'm a sniper, hiding in the dark," the voice growled, "And what I want has no bearing on this matter. My friend, however, seemed to think you're quite important to your detective friend. In fact, my friend seemed to think he'd give it all for you; he'd, er, take a fall for you. Too bad they're both too smart for us. Neither of them gave up anything. Well, we'll soon see if you mean anything in the long run. It's good to be optimistic though; it would be rather depressing to spend your last hours locked in a dark room, wouldn't it? You're a soldier, though, doctor, or at least in a war. You know as well as I that they condition people for tense situations. I do hope you're ready to test that conditioning."

John shivered in the room which suddenly seemed quite cold and damp, although he wasn't sure it was the damp that made him shiver.

"Oh, here's a text. Ah, Holmes is going to investigate the murder; perhaps he's closer to finding you than I thought."

"Murder? What murder?" John shied from the voice that had now moved to his left instead of his right.

"Why, the murder at the children's fun house. Don't worry, it was only a construction worker, no one _important. _He was useless, some might even say he was on the other side, and as all good soldiers know, possible traitors must be terminated."

John shied back in his chair, waiting for this unknown man, who sounded to be in his thirties or forties, to speak again. It was silent for a long time, and John began to wonder if the unknown man had left. A beep from a mobile phone startled John and caused him to jump. He realized the man was still there, lurking in the darkness.

"Yes, Holmes is on the move. I wonder how long it'll take for him to find the clue. It seems it was too obvious for him. What a shame geniuses can't see what's right under their noses, eh Watson? Well, I'll be on my way. Shout if you need something. You never know, someone might accommodate and help you out."

Light footsteps could be heard for several seconds, a crack of light shone on John's back, then the door shut and John was left in darkness.

* * *

**AU:** _Who could this unknown man be? Who is he working with, if anyone? Leave me a comment and I'll be quite pleased :) _


	5. Chapter 4

The scene of the crime was as normal as any other Sherlock had seen; there wasn't anything spectacular, and yet he wondered if John's disappearance could be in any way related. His answer came in way of a note found in the victim's pocket.

Slipping the paper out when Lestrade had his head turned, Sherlock pocketed the scrap, informed Lestrade of only the most important details of the murder, and then scurried away to the corner of the alley in order to read the paper.

"10-25. SH. 21:00. South dock. Peru. P. 5."

Mind spinning, Sherlock analyzed the note. 21:00, military time? 9:00pm. Peru, there was a ship named the Peru in the south dock that Sherlock had glimpsed in a recent case. P 5; could that be the name of a pier or wear house? He was meant to meet someone at 9:00 pm on the 25 of this month, October. Three days from the current day, a while to wait. A while meant to be spent thinking? A while for more clues to be thrown around? Was this a trap? Was this to lead him off the trail of John? It was meant for him, given the SH.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called, "We're finishing up over here. I'll see you around, and I'll keep an eye out for John, yeah?"

Sherlock merely nodded once, and then he returned his attention to the note in his hands.

Three days seemed like a long time to wait. What if he went early? Would they, or would they not expect that? Would there be nothing or something waiting for him?

_Good things come to those who wait._

His mum had told him that dozens of times when Mycroft, being older, had been given opportunities that were withheld from himself as the younger, smaller brother. He'd never liked waiting, however. And yet... The idea that it was a trap loomed large in his mind, as did the idea that this could be a way of sidetracking him from John.

Glancing up, he noticed that the sun was setting, and so Sherlock decided to go home and think about it for a while before rushing into an unknown situation.

* * *

Lestrade watched from his carefully hidden car as Sherlock rushed from the alley, hailed a cab, and disappeared into the quickly approaching London night. Keeping a car between them, Lestrade followed him, surprised when Sherlock simply arrived back at 221B, rather than disappearing off to some mysterious location in search of John or whatever else had the 'consulting detective' preoccupied at the moment.

Despite Sherlock's almost constant comments about Lestrade's lack of detective abilities, the DI could quite clearly see that John was missing, Sherlock had received clues about what had happened to the doctor, and Sherlock was not disclosing this information with the police. That could quite easily mean some form of kidnapping had occurred, and Sherlock was afraid of what police intervention could do to his friend, or whatever John was supposed to represent to the brilliant mind.

Lestrade knew perfectly well that Sherlock was able to solve mysteries in a blink of an eye, and that he could handle himself quite well, but Lestrade had received information from a certain government official to keep an eye out for anything suspicious involving Sherlock. According to this government official, any number of things could happen to Sherlock, and the government official was worried that whatever had made the consulting detective go into hiding for several years would come back to haunt him. Supposedly, Sherlock was not out of the woods yet, and this government official wanted nothing to happen to Sherlock. After all, Sherlock was his little brother.

When Sherlock never emerged from his flat, Lestrade restarted his car and drove back to the station. He debated with himself on whether or not he should tell Mr Holmes of the strange activity involving Sherlock's life and of John's disappearance, but as there was not yet anything suspicious that he could point out specifically, he decided to wait. After all, informing the man in charge of the British government that he had suspicions with no proof of anything seemed like a pointless and fairly 'stupid' idea, as Sherlock would say. Suspicions could pop up anywhere at any time when it came to Sherlock; however, if anything else happened that Lestrade could put his finger on as specifically fishy, he might tell Mycroft at that.

* * *

That night, 221B was a shine with flickering computer light as Sherlock combed the docks with Google Earth to aid him. He found a holding area with a P3 next to the road, and so he assumed P5 wouldn't be too far in.

It was at exactly midnight that a beep pronounced a new computer message. Slowly, Sherlock hovered the mouse over the message, sent by an unknown email address called 221 , and then clicked.

It was a picture of a memory stick and a typed message: _Recognize this?_

Clicking reply, Sherlock said very simply: _No._

To his slight surprise, he received a reply within moments: _Your brother does_.

Sherlock sat still for a moment, tapping his finger absently, and then he replied: _Oh?_

A reply: _Yes, the S.U.N._

Sherlock hesitated, he'd never heard of that: _?_

_The project he's working on; don't pretend you don't know._

_My brother tells me nothing of his doings._

The reply took longer this time, but after three minutes, Sherlock's computer bleeped: _He will._

Sherlock tried to send another oh?, but his computer got an error saying that 221 no longer existed as an email account.

Sitting back, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, searching for any recollection of the S.U.N., there was nothing in his memory.

This unknown person obviously thought Sherlock would know, or perhaps he didn't think Sherlock would know, and was feeding Sherlock a lie about something unreal. Perhaps this was a way of gauging Sherlock's way of dealing with secrets and/or lies.

Much to his dismay, a yawn almost escaped Sherlock's mouth, and he shook his head as if he could shake away the sleepiness. In the morning, he would go to the pier. He would not ask Mycroft about the S.U.N as he wanted as little to do with his brother's business as possible, and he would search for John.

Now, however, he would sleep.

* * *

Light tapping echoed down a polished white, tiled hallway, and two knocks sounded on an enormous teak door.

"Come in," a velvet smooth voice sounded.

Golden knobs were turned, and the messenger marched into the room, shutting the door behind himself.

"He claims that he hasn't heard of the S.U.N., sir. The email turned out negative."

"I believe him, for now. Mycroft Holmes would not tell his little brother unless times were worse than they are now. Give it time; much can happen, much can change, much can _disappear_. However, when times do get bad, Sherlock Holmes will be the last one the British government will want turn to, you'll see."

The soft turning of a page in a book sent the messenger's nervous shooting for a moment, before he squashed them with an iron endurance and a sneer.

"Sir, I do believe he will come before three days time."

"Of course he will."

There was a long pause before the messenger spoke.

"And if he does, sir?"

"You will be ready, I'm sure. You are dismissed, and at ease, if you will. You are making me tense up."

The messenger nodded, and once again footsteps tapped as the messenger retreated from the room.

"Yes," the smooth voice crooned, "Of course he will be ready."

* * *

**AN: **_Well, what do you think? Who is the new persona behind the teak door? And what about the messenger? Feedback is always appreciated :-) _


	6. Chapter 5

**AU: **_This chapter contains violence, just warning you. _

* * *

Flashlight, check. Cellular, check. John's small hand gun, check.

Sherlock quickly refilled his pockets, and slipped out the door of his flat and into the stairwell. There was no noise, so obviously Mrs Hudson was not yet awake. For the briefest moment, he considered telling her of his leaving in case something went wrong, and then he shook away the idea.

John's safety mechanisms and plans must be rubbing off on him.

Silently, Sherlock opened and closed the door, slipping out into the crisp, London, morning air. Hailing a cab, Sherlock soon found himself at the docks, and he paid the driver who glanced out of his window cautiously.

"Ya want me to wait?" The cabbie asked suspiciously glancing at the poshly dressed passenger, and Sherlock was quick to shake his head.

'_Why can't people mind their own business_?' Sherlock thought as the cabbie sped away. Sherlock then pulled his collar up against the wind, and he slipped into the ship yard.

The docks were decaying with age, and every few moments he heard something, somewhere, give a loud bang and a creak. It almost sounded like a door, but it might have been a hanging sign.

His hurried past the metallic buildings, eventually coming to the edge of the pier.

He spotted the Peru, and then his eyes flicked about, searching for P5.

It looked just like the other buildings, save the 5 that was painted on it in fading black. He hurried toward it, listening through the cheaply made door for sounds of life. When he heard nothing, he tried the door and found it unlocked, slipping through, he found himself in a gigantic building loaded with unlabeled wooden crates. His eyes searched quickly for anything out of place, and yet there appeared that nothing underhanded had occurred in the room. A small frown laced his features, and one of his hands drifted toward the pocket of his coat that held John's handgun.

He was fairly far into the building by this point, and he weaves through rows of crates. At one point he glanced into one: empty. Another: also empty.

He held back a sigh and almost wondered if he was in the wrong place. Surely there was a clue to something, somewhere. The door had been unlocked, after all. Was his desperation, however well hidden, to find John so great that it was clouding his thinking process and judgment?

He had quite nearly circled the entire building before a smallest of sounds caught his ears. He listened again; those were most defiantly stockinged feet. They'd obviously thought that going shoeless would eliminate their noise, but this building had an intense echo quality. They must be close, however, otherwise his ears wouldn't be able to pick up such a small noise.

He spun, wondering if they were behind him, but there was no one there. In fact, the room had grown silent.

He spun around again, and still he saw nothing out of the ordinary. A moment later, however, he heard a definite footstep.

He flattened himself against the boxes, his eyes flicking back and forth. He swallowed, hating that his heart beat was going several beats per second too quickly, and then stifled a gasp as he felt hands reach through the cracks between the boxes and race a quick pattern on his shoulder. By the time he spun around, there was nothing there. He stared at the boxes, searching for any clue as to who had been sticking their hand through, when suddenly a hand was in his lower coat pocket, which had housed John's handgun, and Sherlock grabbed for the gun. Spinning, he found it pointed in his face by a muscular man with a neatly shaved head.

"Put your hands up."

Sherlock surveyed the man. Military background, spends the majority of his time working off calories from high protein food, rough background, but at one time quite well respected, recently been in a physical conflict...

"Hands up!" The man shouted, gesturing with the gun, and Sherlock held back a smirk.

"You won't kill me, you need me for something. You've been instructed not to kill me."

Still, obediently he raised his hands and continued to scrutinize the man.

"Even if I did have some reason not to kill you, I sure don't have no reason not to rough you up. Now get on, that way," the man pointed with the gun,

And Sherlock obeyed, figuring that perhaps he could find some information if he played along for a while. He turned the corner around the boxes, and tried not to look surprised. Instead of there being only two or three men like he thought there would be, there were 30 lined up in rows of 10. How could they all have come in so quietly. Obviously there was some plan that existed that had been quite well rehearsed.

The gun was suddenly brought to, just barely, touch the small of his back, and the ex-military man spoke.

"Mr Holmes," he said, "Follow the captain into the office right over there. I'll be right behind you."

Captain? Sherlock wondered for a moment, captain of what? Not military, no perhaps police. Ex-police. More likely kicked off the force than voluntarily quitting.

"Move it!" Sherlock was suddenly shoved harshly, and he had to struggle to catch himself from falling. Quickly, he followed the captain toward an old metal door which looked as if it was rusting at its hinges. Most likely, back when this port was still lively and young, the door had led to the office of a head of the dockyard.

The door was thrust open and Sherlock strode into the room, glancing at a wooden desk which was covered with a thick layer of dust. A rolling chair with a spring sticking out of it was still behind the desk.

"Now," the ex-military man came to stand in front of Sherlock, the gun tightly clasped, "You are a very rude guest. Don't you know that you weren't invited to come for two more days?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, until the hand gun was thrust toward him and the ex-military man screamed, "You will reply when spoken to!"

"I have never been applauded for my consideration of what is or is not rude," Sherlock slowly articulated. The ex-military man smirked.

"A man after my own heart," he almost laughed, and Sherlock stared on, emotionless.

"Now, since you and I are on an understanding of rudeness and not caring about it, I'll skip all the pleasantries and tell you why you're here."

"I believe," Sherlock interrupted, "I am here because I chose to be."

"You would not have made that choice if it hadn't been for the robbery, no? Or the murder?"

Sherlock was silent.

"You must have been curious or you would have spent further time sitting around your apartment chatting with unknown people from unknown emails, hm?"

"This visit was not about the robbery."

"Wasn't it? The murder then?"

"Neither the murder, nor the crime were anything special. I'm sure you are aware that they were planned to look particularly normal."

The ex-military man almost looked surprised by this statement, and he quickly continued.

"No matter what they were planned to look like, something brought you here. Perhaps it was the emails?"

Sherlock refused to answer the question.

"Have you talked to your brother about the SUN?"

Sherlock remained silent, and the ex-military man's face darkened.

"Have you talked to him?" He shouted and Sherlock grunted as, abruptly, the captain hit him in the stomach.

"No," Sherlock grunted.

The ex-military man's face darkened farther.

"That was part of the plan, you were supposed to talk to him! You need to bring me the file! After the robbery, the murder, the emails, you still haven't talked to your brother?"

"Commendable effort, that, however I think you'll be disappointed to know that your plan hasn't particularly gotten you the kind of attention you hoped to acquire."

"Oh, I haven't even begun my plan yet. All you've witnessed is the prequel, the initiatory, the d'abord. No, my plan is starting right now. Bring him out!" The ex-military man had quickly smoothed her nerves, and now a confident smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

The door to the room slammed open, and Sherlock recognized the suppressed grunt of pain before he saw the face of the person who was thrown to the floor.

"My plan is staring now, Sherlock. Find the file in 24 hours, and he might not die."

Quite honestly, however, Sherlock hardly heard him; Sherlock's eyes were focused on John Watson's crumpled form.

He'd been beaten, Sherlock could see that much. It wasn't deadly or anything so dramatic as that, but bruises dud dot his arms and one stood out a dark yellow on his cheek. John's hands and feet were tied with a thick, scratchy rope, and Sherlock could see rope burns clearly on the wrists. John was clearly conscious, but it was also clear that he was keeping his eyes glued to floor, following some kind of previously ordered command.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to stare?" the ex-military man snapped Sherlock's suddenly infuriated eyes up to meet has own.

"What file is it that you want?" Sherlock ground out.

"The SUN file. Your brother has it in his possession."

"My brother and I are hardly on speaking terms. Besides that, he has an almost uncrackable shell. You know as well as I that even I could never get anything from him in less than 48 hours, if not more."

The ex-military man was silent.

"48 hours is reasonable," he finally nodded.

"I said if not more."

"It better not take more. Every moment over 48 hours will be a threat to his," the ex-military man kicked at John, "Life."

The gun in the man's hand was being handled more and more carefully, and Sherlock's own hand inched toward his pocket with his throwing knives. The ex-military man may not have noticed, but the captain did. Within a moment, Sherlock's hands were twisted behind his back.

"Ah, Mr Holmes," the ex-military man shook his head, "You underestimate my men. I am almost surprised that you tried, especially with your companion so helpless."

Sherlock's face must have dropped, because the other man smiled a twisted smile.

Sherlock actually winced as the man's leg was drawn back. The man then kicked John quite hard in what appeared to be the solar plexus.

Sherlock's heart stopped and he paled dramatically. Such a hit could be fatal...

"Oh don't look so horrified, Mr Holmes," the man said smoothly as Sherlock watched John unsuccessfully try to breath, "I need Mr Watson, for now. I know how to kick light enough not to kill. Unlike you, I don't want to murder my enemy."

Sherlock stood stock still, completely baffled by whatever this man was referring to. John was still unsuccessfully gasping for breath.

"Let me help him," Sherlock suddenly voiced, and the ex-military man seemed to think it over, then he stood aside, allowing Sherlock to drop down beside his friend.

"John," Sherlock supported John's back and helped him to sit up straight. "John listen; for a moment, stop trying to breath, and then take a deep breath. Okay, hold. Don't breath just sit. Now, slowly, very slowly, breathe. There, breathe."

John began to control his breathing, and Sherlock nodded, satisfied that John wouldn't suffocate.

"You've saved him, now get up," the captain commanded, and Sherlock slowly stood.

"You have 48 hours to find the file, Mr Holmes, or next time it might be fatal."

"Wait, can I talk to him before I leave?" Sherlock requested stiffly, and the ex-military man nodded once. He moved toward the door, and Sherlock knelt beside John again.

"How are you?" He asked quietly, "Have they fed you?"

John nodded once, "I was alright until this morning," John coughed, "Then they untied me and I wasn't compliant."

"Just nod if you know more of what's happening than they've said to me."

John hesitated, and then shrugged.

He knew something, Sherlock realized immediately. He knew something, and that was his way of saying so without bringing more danger upon himself.

"It couldn't be revenge, could it?" Sherlock asked. Again, John shrugged, although he was conveying great information with his eyes.

"From someone who died?" Sherlock emphasized the word died so much that he was sure John knew who he was talking about.

John's face was conflicted this time.

"Not from," John cough quietly, "About."

"Time's up!" The ex-military man declared, marching over the Sherlock and John. "Will you be getting the file?"

"I'll do my best," Sherlock stood, "How will I bring you the file? How will I find you? What's your name, anyway?"

"I'll find you," the ex-military man said simply, "And there is no reason for you to know my name."

"I think I deserve at least a little more explanation," Sherlock frowned, "It will help me get the file from my brother."

The man puzzled over this, and then nodded.

"The SUN project stands for the Supplicate United Nations. It was originally created by an underground organization who divide the United Nations council so dramatically that a world conflict would break out. However, while it was being transferred between members of the underground, your brother's people intervened. They, most likely, know all about the plan now and will do all they can to stop it. However, my people want it back; we are fully prepared to take very drastic measures. Watch yourself, Mr Holmes. Now, on your way."

Sherlock glanced once more at John, and then looked back to the ex-military man. He had decided this man was a hired gun.

The door was opened, and Sherlock slowly went to stand beside it.

"You have 48 hours," the hired gun told Sherlock, "Starting now."

* * *

**AU**: _Who is this military man? He is actually from Sherlock, but not the BBC. Can you figure out his name?_

_Poor Sherlock, what is he to do?_

_Btw, I don't know anything about the UN so idk how much other powers want to take them down or whatever, but I figured it would make a good Sherlock story. Just roll with it. Also, thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, they are helpful for me writing more (sorta) quicker!_


	7. Chapter 6

It was a cool morning, and Mycroft sighed lightly as his eyes drifted toward an open window. He pondered about whether or not to stand and close it, and then he decided it wasn't worth the effort. Today was the first 'vacation' he'd had in several months, if you can call staying home to read new possible laws a vacation. At least he was at home and would have no reason to leave for at least two days or however long it took him to thumb through the thick documents. Internet was not always secure, so the papers had been printed for him, and he held a red pen in one hand as his eyes flashed back and forth.

A sound at the door made him glance up slowly, and he saw his butler talking to someone in the front hall. A moment later, his butler ran to the archway into the library, and he announced that Sherlock as at the door and was demanding to be let in.

Mycroft's face fell flat, but he nodded that Sherlock could enter, and moments later his brother was standing across from him looking a little rumpled but all together as collected as ever.

"What a surprise," Mycroft placed his pen on a nearby table, true shock colouring his tone. "I'd come to think you didn't like visiting Holmes Hall."

"I only come to the old family manor when there is important business," Sherlock frowned.

"Yes. Well do continue, I hate waiting in suspense."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then frowned, his expression settling into nothing short of disgust.

"Mycroft," Sherlock shook his head, though his brother could tell he'd quickly changed what he planned to say, "You must realise what today is?"

"Oh?" Mycroft inquired smoothly. He wondered what Sherlock had seen that had so quickly changed his demeanour.

"It is anniversary day, when we examine the glass plates in the windows. However much I despise this old place, those windows are from the 1500s, and they have not been replaced yet."

Now Mycroft knew that something had out off Sherlock. To anyone listening, there wouldn't be anything odd about what Sherlock was saying, for it was perfectly true. Today was what the brothers' parents had called anniversary day when the family went about inspecting the ancient stained glass of the manor, but Sherlock would never have showed up simply for that, no matter how important the tradition used to be.

"Well," Mycroft played along, placing the papers next to the red pen on the side table, "I'll come along to look at the windows."

Sherlock nodded, following Mycroft out of the room, and they walked in silence, the elder wondering when his little brother would disclose what had prompted his strange behaviour. Eventually they arrived at the old manor's abbey, and Sherlock's eyes searched the room, obviously looking for something.

"I've always loved how the sun went through those windows," Sherlock murmured as his eyes continued to search the room.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied cryptically.

Sherlock suddenly paused in his searching, again standing rigid, put off by something.

"Listen, do you hear that?" Sherlock suddenly turned to his brother.

"Hear what?"

"A slight buzz, I think it could be a bug."

Mycroft froze.

"To my knowledge, we haven't had a bug problem in here, but I did have a new inspector come."

"The whole house?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but follow me. There maybe one room you should look at."

Sherlock followed his brother back down the hallway until they reached an area he knew well from his childhood.

He glanced around and then nodded. Mycroft ran his hand over a wooden panel, and then pushed softly. A section of the wall slid back, and Sherlock stepped in, followed by Mycroft. Mycroft took a flashlight from beside the wall and then the panel slid back into place.

"Keep going," Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft hurried down a flight of curling stone steps until the brothers reached an ancient stone room outfitted with buckets of water and piles of long lasting food.

"The new inspector did not see the safe room," Mycroft told Sherlock, who nodded.

"Really, Mycroft, I thought you of all people wouldn't get new house inspectors."

"The old one passed away, didn't you hear?"

"Oh," Sherlock hesitated, "I'm sorry. He's been ours since before I was born."

"Yes, well I suppose we will be getting a third one, eh?"

"Your house is filled with recording devices that are not your own. How long ago was the house inspected for safety?"

"Less than two weeks. This is the first time since then I've spent any real time at home."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then began pacing.

"Now, Sherlock, what you doing here? The SUN?"

"Yes."

"How in Great Britain do you know about that?"

"I was contacted about it."

"By who?"

"A man, ex military."

"Military? They don't know about it!"

"I said ex military."

"Oh, working for who?"

"I don't know," Sherlock stopped pacing, his face taking on a far away look that, if Mycroft didn't know better, could be interpreted as peril.

"And so you've come here?"

"They want it back, Mycroft, they're willing to kill for it."

"They?"

"The underground."

"The underground?"

"Yes, the people who created it!"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock turned to his brother, and his face turned to confusion when he saw that his brother was also confused.

"The SUN project."

"Yes, I know all about the SUN project. I created it!"

"You what?" It was know Sherlock's turn to be confused.

"I created it, Sherlock, along with an old professor you met when you were younger. He's an old family friend. Surely you remember him. He's written a great number of books, though he quit teaching years ago. It's a problem like no other, but I don't understand how an ex military man or underground would know about it."

Sherlock stopped, frowning. "One of us is confused," he said.

"What were you told of the SUN?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "You first."

Mycroft hesitated.

"The SUN is an organization that will go into foreign affairs around the world and try to correct problems started by various leaders who wish to overthrow governments."

"Meaning it's a spy business?"

Mycroft hesitated, before giving an almost nervous shrug.

"And it stands for what, exactly?"

"Sub Unified Nationalization."

"You're lying," Sherlock declared simply.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because it's obvious. You should know by now that I can read you like my anatomical physiology book."

"Ah, that well?" Mycroft smirked lightly.

"Well," Sherlock was obviously not in the mood for joking, "Stop lying to me. Tell me honestly."

"You tell me what you know, Sherlock. I cannot disclose government information."

"It was created by an underground organization to destroy the UN, and they want the file back."

"Really?" Mycroft now began to pace around the room, "Is that what you've heard? And where did you hear that from?"

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, and Mycroft noticed this distinctly.

"I see," he hummed, "Well you won't be getting it from me, brother, I have had man after man hide that file around the country until no one knows where it is."

"Except you and the last man who hid it," Sherlock pointed out.

"Ah, see that's just it. If it was that simple, that man would have been kidnapped ages ago and forced to say its location. No, not even he knows where it is, because he didn't know he hid it."

Sherlock raised an eye brow.

"I know where it is, but I'm untouchable. That man knows where something is, but he doesn't realize what that something is."

"You should be more careful about claiming untochableness," Sherlock ran a hand over his scarf, contemplating what to do about John. Of course he wasn't going to hand over the file plain and simple, but if he could just get ahold of the file, he could make a copy, change some computer codes, and disguise a worthless file as the precious, desired one. It seemed that it would be hard to find, however.

"Sherlock, something is bothering you."

It was a simply stated fact, and Sherlock stood rigid. "Of course I'm fine," he frowned.

"Where is John?"

Sherlock froze his eyes pinning themselves on his brother. He couldn't know about John, could he?

"Sherlock, where is John?" Now Mycroft's voice sounded sharp and almost worried. "Where is he?"

"Well he isn't here," Sherlock snapped.

"Obviously," Mycroft rolled his eyes in an almost Sherlock-like manner.

Then, Mycroft's face paled dramatically.

"Oh no, Sherlock-"

"What?" Sherlock glared at Mycroft.

"Sherlock, he's not... Sherlock he's not missing, if you get my point?"

Sherlock was silent, his face giving nothing away.

"The only reason I ask is because of your sudden interest in SUN."

"Why would that make a difference?" Sherlock asked, his heart suddenly sinking as a horror suddenly swept over him.

"Sherlock, I think you already have a good ideas of why that would make a difference."

"My God, Mycroft how could you? What were you thinking?"

"He didn't know what he was hiding."

"They don't know that!" Sherlock's voice was suddenly quite edgy. Mycroft shifted.

"So, he is missing."

Sherlock paced to the other side of the room and ran a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic move of desperation.

* * *

**AU: **_For my Hobbit fans, I'm really sorry I haven't update Remembrance, but I've had a sudden rush of inspiration for this story. Hopefully my next story update will be for __Remembrance_, however. :) Anyway, thank you for all of your reviews. Keep them coming! (-:


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